Fidelis ad Mortem Astraque: Ludi Fortunae
by LegionN7
Summary: The year is 2151. Robert Shepard is a 'personnel manager' working for a shadowy figure who hires out to the cutthroat corporations looking to gain an edge on Earth. He has a family he wants to extricate and head for the colonies, so they can live a simple life life. But can Robert ever truly lay down his 'cleaning tools? Or is he doomed to remain in his role? M for swearing
1. Ianitor

**A/N: So I've wanted to write a 'space western' for a while now. It reads more like a modern crime, but it will be more a revisionist western later. This is the 'back-backstory' to Shepard's family and how they ended up on Mindoir. Reviews and critique greatly appreciated!**

**DISCLAIMER: No technologies, trademarks, locations, or recognizable locations belong to me.**

**October 8, 2151**

**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United North American States, Earth**

There he was, finally.

Robert had set up in the top floor of an abandoned storefront, well away from the window opening, to await his target. The money he would earn from this last bounty would allow him to begin anew...

The stale air coaxed sweat onto his brow, the spores agitated from moldy cushions he was set up on burning his nose, mixing with the dust to create an irritating bouquet. The unnatural stillness made him aware of his very heartbeat, and even the slight sound of blood coursing through his veins was easily apparent.

Squinting his eyes through the ancient iron sights of the M91/30 model 7.62x54r Mosin Nagant sniper-variant rifle, Robert sought his target. There he was- all cheap suit and fake smile, 300 meters away. _That's my battle-zero. How fortuitous. _Robert adjusted the rear sight ramp accordingly.

Releasing half a breath, blowing on his left thumb as he did so to control his heartbeat, Robert nestled the gun into his shooter's notch, found his spot-weld, and began the long trigger pull associated with the rifle.

The spring broke at exactly one inch and 8.25 pounds of pull, releasing the bolt spring that propelled the firing pin. The firing pin crushed the primer in the center, igniting the corrosive material that touched off the stored gunpowder. As the gunpowder burned, gases built up behind the steel-core projectile, eventually causing it to burst forth from the cartridge holding it. The 7.62 millimeter bullet raced down the barrel, twisting at a rifling rate of precisely 240 millimeters as it flew, then raced through the chill morning and made contact with the target.

At the bullet's first kiss, flesh and bone parted, brain matter was cooked and torn as the frontal lobe, corpus callosum, temporal lobe, then cerebellum were caressed. At the second kiss, the hydraulic shock blew an exit out the rear of the target's skull, throwing bone fragment and gray matter and hair outward. Energy still left, the bullet buried itself into the cement before expending its penetrative force and crumpling on itself slightly, the steel core not allowing much deformity.

As soon as the shot had happened, Robert quickly retreated out the bolt hole he had set up, sure that the banker's guards wouldn't be competent enough to track him too quickly.

As he ran, rifle in hand, he scanned for anyone alert to him. Reaching his cache, he quickly broke down the rifle and placed it in his handmade hardcase, then secreted it in his overcoat.

Normally, a competent assassin would dump his used weapon, but the antique he held, one passed down from one generation to the next, and having originated in an export factory in the city of Georgia, Vermont during the Second World War, was such a commonplace collector's item, he was not worried. Milsurp ammo was virtually impossible to trace back, and he had been careful to keep his rounds free of incriminating DNA, dust, or fabric. In fact, he had placed a tarp over where the rifle had lain, to collect any immediate gunsmoke residue.. Making sure his also-ancient Raven P25 'belly gun' was ready with a Glaser Safety Slug chambered in case of trouble, he moved off into the crowd of people commuting to and from lunch.

Spotting the new-model Ford hovercar parked at a 22 degree angle to the cinder, he passed by and delivered a rapid series of three taps, then one long tap on the hood as he walked. _Thats three for range and one for rounds._ He stopped at the edge of an alleyway, then twisted his head left then right to complete the sequence. _Target dead, no pursuit._

Walking down the alley, a figure decloaked holding a briefcase, which was accepted by Robert, who then hurried off to his home on a business-model hoverbike.

Charles would be back from school soon and Linda wanted him to cook and clean while she was off with some friends for a well-deserved day of relaxation.

Reaching home, Robert dismounted the hoverbike, and went inside with his items.

He carefully measured out the hard currency, adding it to another container with a commercial-grade mass reducer, ensuring that the total sum was there. That last bounty, then his family could go to the colonies, away from the corporate greed pit that Earth was becoming in its seedier areas.

Glancing at the wall chrono, he realized he still had a good chunk of time before he would need to prepare dinner, so he opened his armory to begin his daily maintenance.

He started with the Mosin Nagant- the 'Moist Nugget' that he had just used, to remove the corrosive residue left by the round. He finally worked the bolt, ejecting the cartridge he had spent in performing the hit, then carefully placed it in a specialized crucible, then heated it to the melting point. As the former cartridge burned off its impurities, Robert opened the release for the remaining four shells left in the internal magazine. They tumbled out and were placed back into their box. Efficiently, he cleaned the barrel, the receiver, the firing pin, and the bolt; utilizing a strong residue solvent, a mineral spirit bath, and a copper wire brush. The barrel was finished with a cloth brush, and cotton patches run through the barrel to test for any remaining gunk. Robert had no worries about any cosmoline buildup- the wood preserver used in original manufacturing that lent the rifle its nickname- as the stock had long been 'de-cosmo'd' and shellacked. Then the barrel went back in place- floated, of course- with the wood handguard fitted over, and the retainer loops snapped back in place. Tang screws and bolt went in finally, and a light coating of gun oil finished the process.

He took a specialized set of shot moulds, and carefully collected the molten brass, which he pressed into his own shot for his defense shotshells.

Next to be cleaned was the Raven, the magazine removed and the Glaser ejected from the chamber. A screwdriver push engaged the rear take-down pin, allowing the slide to separate from the chassis. The firing pin assembly was cleaned and placed in the correct position on his bench, as a backwards firing pin would cause a failure to feed if the gun were to be racked.

The safety was removed and inspected for cracks, as were the wood grips. This model gun was dismissed as an early 20th century 'Saturday Night Special'- a cheap, small handgun used mainly by gangs and the poorest rednecks, building a reputation of mechanical failures due to 'pot metal' construction and insufficient power.

In reality, this particular handgun had been passed down as well, been manufactured in 1971, and was nickel-finished, and had never failed any family member. Standard 50 grain FMJ rounds would bounce off a target at more than 'true' tactical range, but the specialized 35 grain Glasers were sufficiently deadly that Robert felt safe carrying it.

Once again, the slide, barrel, and chassis were brushed with a copper wire brush and solvent, then wiped, patched, reassembled, and oiled.

Take care of your equipment and your equipment takes care of you, after all.

After cleaning his collection of sporting and defense firearms, Robert set about the task of preparing dinner.

Just as he was bringing the pot to simmer with ground beef and palm hearts in, Charles walked in from school.

"Hey, dad. Any word on our travel or moving plans?"

Stirring the beef to get an even brown, Robert looked over at his son. A lean, red-haired specimen, about seventeen years old, Charles was always making sure he had his life organized and planned. Just like his room, thank God.

"Well, I got another bonus today, so we should be able to leave in a month or so. With any luck we might even be on the new planet and established by Christmas." And to think that _merely years _before, humanity still thought itself alone. Then they had found evidence of an ancient spacefaring race on Mars, and then all of a sudden new technologies had begun infusing into everyone's daily lives. Of course, not everything had been wholly replaced-yet-but it was enough to keep life interesting.

"Good. The chicks around here are no fun anyways. All they ever want to do is text about 'swag' and 'feels' and Josepine Beader music. Ya know, I _actually heard _some girl say 'totes presh' today. God, I hate ditzes."

Laughing slightly, Robert opened two cans of dark red kidney beans, a can of stewed tomatoes, and a second jar of palm hearts, then mixed them into the pot.

"You know, son, there's going to be slim pickings on the wild colonies."

Charles just groaned slightly, shrugged off his backpack, and ambled to do his homework.

Mixing in the right amount of spices- crushed red pepper, rosemary, savory, and a bay leaf- Robert brought the heat element to simmer, and finally moved to relax with a stout beer.

Just then, his communicator started flashing- a work call.

Accepting the call, Robert brought up a jamming field in the room.

"Good job, you got away clean. Now we're going to need you as overwatch..."

"_What the flying fuck are you doing, calling me when I'm off?" _Robert bellowed. As soon as Ray's oily voice crept through the speakers, he knew it was to be extremely unpleasant.

"Simmer _down_. Jesus. As I was saying..."

"I don't care what you were saying; get with me at the normal time. I don't take business calls at home."

"Disconnect and your little family isn't going to be very happy." Steel had come into the voice, steel that made Robert realize maybe he _shouldn't _be antagonizing the main cleaner in the Boss' agency.

"Just hurry the fuck up, dammit!" Even so, Robert wasn't going to let the snake have the satisfaction of hearing him cowed so easily.

"That's more like it." The steel was there, but an acid wisp of smugness had colored the man's speech.

"The guy you cleaned last... We're saving the trouble of an estate hearing and going straight for the disbursement, follow?" _Boss' lingo for straight stealing of property/funds."_Anyway, I need you Eagle On High, then to personally transfer the load to our principal." _Sniper's nest, then make a switch and grab, deliver to front company. Easy enough._

"Who's running Archangel, and who's running Squirrel?" _Which one is ground cover and who's the infiltrator? _Robert was hoping it would be a team he could trust.

"Heh. Riggs and Tay. I'll be your drop off; boss is expecting exactly 56,500 credits, three gems, and a stock portfolio."

"Payout? I can't just run at the drop of a hat."

"Your usual, plus ten as a good-work bonus."

"Plus fifteen. And the additional I want hard up front."

"Ooooh, thinks he can make demands, does he? Twelve, and its already at ya."

"When?" Robert knew he wouldn't be able to win many more concessions.

"Tomorrow, ten thirty local. Be in the position marked, wait for the signals, the usual."

"Fine. Now go scurry off."

A chuckle of bemusement. "Very well, _boss man._ Looks like I won't have to take your moist nugget. Or your rifle." The enforcer leered then cut the connection.

_Fucking hell _Robert hated dealing with the enforcer. He dropped the noise dampening screen, and walked outside to pick up the case of currency just deposited. Counted it twice, checked the values. Satisfied, he finished his beer and stirred the chili.

"Charles! Dinnertime!"

Just then Linda walked into the house all gussied up, and gave Robert a welcome kiss.

"Hey, dear. How was work?"

"Oh, they've got me running another deal tomorrow morning, and the bonus from the overtime should get us to the colony!" Robert _hated _lying to his family, but what could he do? Tell them he was a hitman, a killer for hire by this company? No, this was a burden he needed to carry alone. What they did know was he worked HR in 'personnel management".

Linda smiled wide, and moved to sit down beside his chair. "Fire anyone today?"

Grimacing, Robert twisted open a pale ale and took a swig. "Yeah. Corrupt corporate brass this time around. He never saw the charge coming." There was a macabre comfort in the cover story; Robert could doublespeak to give voice to his experiences.

Bringing the chili pot and a ladle to the table, Robert returned to the kitchen to procure the butter dish and bread bowl.

Sitting down to join hands for the blessing, then getting their portions, the family began eating.

Robert couldn't help but be distracted, the usual banter the only thing preventing him from full-on brooding.

As the dishes were cleared and washed, Robert went into his study to read. He glanced up at the family coat of arms, printed on parchment. A knight's helm graced the top, an ornate lion twisted around the shield. Three red stars and three upright fishes graced the front of the shield- red stars for courage and fish for piety, the helm for chivalry and the lion for strength. The proud bold font of the motto outlined the design: Fidelis ad Mortem Astraque. _Faithful to death and the heavens beyond._

Robert sighed as he abandoned his book, rubbing his eyes and crinkling his brow.

He would remain faithful to the Boss for now, but only so he could remain faithful to his family.


	2. Fugator

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay between updates. RL and the collaborative project have consumed so much of my time. If you wish to see the collab project, involving several of the best ME fic writers, look on my profile for "Galactic Life, and Reapers".**

**As for this fic, there should only be one more chapter for this arc, which serves as the prequel to Fidelis ad Mortem Astraque: Elementum; In turn, Elementum is the prequel to FaMA: Heros Gnascori.**

**Enjoy!**

"Now tell me everything, Robert." Linda's hard gaze and crossed arms brokered no argument or escape. Even with the hostile edge, frazzled hair, flecks of blood, and wash of grime over her, the cleaner was reminded just how beautiful his wife was.

His right shoulder still throbbed and ached from the round he had taken, luckily bone had not been irreparably shattered. The gauze over the wound was almost saturated with blood now, and each movement elicited a terrible itching. Still though he felt blessed and fortunate to be alive.

Charles for his part was keeping quiet, checking and rechecking the hastily compiled luggage, now resting on the cold, unyielding deck of their salvation.

Taking a deep breath of recycled ship air, stale and flat with lubricants, tinged with janitorial chemicals, and charged with ozone, Robert began with the circumstances of his hiring, all the way through their quick departure, finding relief in full disclosure. Tangible was the hurt in his family's eyes, like that of a dog whipped by a usually loving master from Charles; Linda's more like a law enforcement officer forced to shoot their own kin.

But inexorably he drew the sordid story out like a parasite, a sickness, a cancer; his 'profession' could not accurately be described as anything but.

Placing his face in his hands and rubbing his eyes slightly, as if to further expunge his guilt, Robert began to explain the events that had caused such a stir...

* * *

Not even a day after his last performance and Robert was already back behind the irons of the Mosin rifle, prepared to take life.

He felt much more exposed, as he was between a roof tarp and shingles, not within a booby-trapped room and looking out a window. The tarpaulin at least provided some protection against the biting chill of the mid-morning, while the texture of rough shingles was ever-present against him, grit and pebbles digging into him, lightly abrading the top of his exposed skin whenever he shifted.

The Squirrel would be going through looking for the hard currency and financial papers, and would transfer everything into a mass-reducing container for easy travel. Riggs the Squirrel would then hand it off to Tay running Archangel, and disappear. Tay would meet Robert in an alley, who would deliver to a holdings firm that acted as a front for some of the Boss' assets.

For now, Robert only needed to keep his eyes down the sights, making sure no one interfered. Anyone getting close would be called in, anyone actively hostile would necessitate either a bug-out or aggressive action.

"Pedestrian, white shirt, Charlie priority, approaching west."

Robert called in the possible problem, and saw Tay draw a smartphone and begin a mock call while the man passed by, hopefully to appear as a mere functionary distracted by a business call.

Just in case, Robert tracked the walker until he disappeared, blissfully unaware of the finger of death that had been poised over him.

Settling back to watch, Robert flexed stiff fingers with infinite care and slowness, relaxing back into his watching pattern.

"Pepper stuffed. Going into the oven."

_Container filled, prepared to hand off_.

The arbitrary phrases sounded idiotic, but wouldn't garner significant attention if picked up.

"Oven at 360"

_All clear and ready._

A few minutes passed before the next call came.

"Baking."

Robert field-stripped the rifle efficiently, checked his P25 holdout, then slid off the roof and headed off for the pickup point.

He'd brought several pre-loaded magazines for the Raven, he just _knew_ he would regret it if he hadn't. He had 35 grain Glasers loaded already, 3 mags of 40 grain expanding hollowpoints, and two of standard 50 grain full metal jackets.

_If i'm down to those... Then there is a serious problem._

When it came to the .25 caliber, a greatly underrated cartridge, the lighter the better in defense. The Glasers were hollowpoints, with ratshot coated in a rabbitfish venom and tipped with a wax. They were meant solely for soft-tissue destruction and wouldn't do much against a solid barrier- they were intended for federal air marshals to carry aboard airplanes.

The regular hollowpoints flew slightly slower, and didn't have the ratshot, but still contained deposits of _e. coli _and other septic surprises.

The full metal jacketed bullets retained their shape at every point in flight, and would only deform against a solid structure. They had been known to bounce off skulls and breastbone, but Robert always hotloaded even his practice rounds, so he still carried them for backup.

All this ran through his mind as he scurried to the meeting point to grab 'the pepper'.

He saw Tay up ahead, and slowed down for a non-suspicious exchange pattern, hunching over in the chill air, long coat ready to receive.

Suddenly and completely unexpectedly, a violet pain imploded his brain. A sunburst and myriad constellations formed before his eyes, he stumbled forward, kissing the stone-cold alley pavement.

Mind reeling, he tried to lift himself up when an unstoppable pressure appeared over his spine between the shoulders.

Struggling uselessly, he could hear the two conversing.

"Hehe. What say we take a little extra and stick him with the balance?" Riggs' voice sounded almost delighted.

"Sounds good. Ray did say we needed a good excuse to..."

"You fucker! He's not dead yet and you're telling about..."

"Then flip the bastard over and shoot him, we say he tried to kill us, we take the extra."

"Allright..." The boot shifted to the side to deliver a nasty kick to Robert's side to flip him...

Anticipating, he rolled with it, drawing the Raven as he turned, a round already chambered; one-handed acquired the smug visage of Riggs, and placed a Glaser into each of his eyes, a shower of blood, brains, and mucus exploding out the ruined orbitals.

Flattening himself and throwing his arms flush to the ground above his head, still belly-up, he tracked Tay's form, a Glaser ripping into the man's scrotum, ratshot exploding and grinding his testes; another destroyed the heart, coring the cardiac muscle and ripping arteries. As the men toppled, Robert stood shakily and closed his eyes hard to try to recenter himself, the pain in the back of his skull throbbing and lancing with every heartbeat. He managed to grab the newfangled mass-reducing box and took off.

It had been cold enough that the normally-subsonic rounds had broken the sound barrier, and Robert knew there would be a response to the four sharp reports, so he immediately left as soon as he confirmed that the box was indeed full.

If he was in for killing two of The Boss' associates, he may as well take the full haul and get out of there.

As he ducked through back alleys and between backyards, he heard the sirens in the distance.

Pausing for a moment beside a frosted cast iron fence, he felt his omnitool buzzing.

A message had appeared, pulsing above the haptic aerogel: ANSWER OR DIE

Shaking his head and chuckling as only a doomed man could at the holovid idiocy of the message, he opened the comm function.

Ray's face filled the screen, rage on his features.

Before he could open his mouth, Robert snarked at him, "So I guess I'm off the hook now that I answered you..."

"Shut up. Do you know what the fuck you're doing?"

"Retiring. Don't waste resources on me." Robert closed the comm and opened another...

"Derrick damn you, answer..."

"He-llo there, Robert? Kind of a strange time to be calling..."

The burly black man's baritone was balm to Robert's ears... He hadn't left yet.

"Hey man, listen. Remember I asked about going on your colony run next month?"

"Let me guess. The timetable moved up, you have a bunch of money to offer, and it'll be a white-knuckle pickup probably under fire." The captain crossed his arms and looked bemusedly at the cleaner.

"I'll give you 35, today, and I hope not."

"Please, Robert. I got out of that life- I know how its going to end up."

He sighed, running a palm over his face, laugh lines stretching as he blinked world-weariness from his eyes.

"Luckily for you I've got a basic run for one of the outer colonies. Was supposed to leave tomorrow, but I guess my crew won't mutiny over one day less leave. Well, the bonus sure will help."

"Thanks man. I knew all those years counted for something."

"Well don't propose with sweets and bubbly yet, we still need you aboard. I'm guessing you still have that ancient arsenal of yours?"

Robert allowed a slightly offended look into his eyes.

"Save it. I've got a few crates of surplus bound for first-gens. I'll be sure to have my C and E guy transfer you official like so it wouldn't be stealing."

"Its still coming with us." Robert was loathe to leave behind his guns- they'd been in the family for a long time and he'd invested too much time in the ammo and weaponry to simply leave them.

"Yeah yeah. You always did love your old tech. Just... Be ready at about 1600."

"Four hours? Thats a lot of time..."

"I know it is. But I can't recall my crew, finagle all my paperwork, and get clearance sooner. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We'll be ready."

* * *

Robert stormed his home and began stuffing necessities into mainline mass reduction crates. Clothes, toiletries, papers, valuable electronics; He even packed his case of dark beer and a bottle of scotch for the ride.

Next he did the same in Charles' room, only grabbing what the young man would require. He opened his mancave and stacked ammunition boxes, reloading and cleaning gear; keeping some ammo on his person, and piecing the Mosin back together.

When Charles walked in, Robert all but bowled him over, frantically explaining that he needed to help him load the crates into the trunk of the family's hovercar, a fairly new model Liszt-Redford.

Charles just gave him a glazed over look, but when Robert pulled out the venerable Mossberg and began loading with alternating Brenneke slugs and buckshot, the teen got the idea and ran to assist.

As soon as the car was loaded and primed, Linda's single seater pulled in and she stepped out, eyes narrowing in suspicion at the two men stacking food inside the car.

"Is there a party I don't know about?" she asked, tension starting to fill her like a pool of bleach, a caustic creep of uncertainty.

"Yes, and I'm glad you all decided to show up."

A voice blacker than the ocean deep caused the family to swirl their heads at a figure standing confidently on their roof.

"And all in one bunch too."

"Ray..."

"Robert, who is he and why is he on our roof?" Linda's voice had gone quiet, hiding the strained cavitations of fear.

A dark chuckle. "Well miz, I am your nex-"

Robert's hand dove into his waistband, extracting the Raven.

As soon as he was establishing sight picture though, the man had pulled a .460 S&W Magnum Raging Bull- a massive revolver made by Taurus and chambered for a round designed for hunting large game- and opened fire, opting for double-action.

Robert's index finger squeezed on the trigger once, twice... Then clicked dry; he hadn't replaced the magazine since expending the four safety slugs earlier.

One Glaser, travelling twice as slowly as the oncoming rounds, impacted a bullet just at the right tangent to send it spinning to keyhole the dirt beside him.

The second round impacted the enforcer square in the chest, 127 joules of energy transferring into his body...

Instead of a cry of pain and a spurt of blood and bone chips, however, the bullet flattened against body armor. The force still caused Ray to stagger and his aim to spoil, losing his footing.

Instead of possibly compounding the issue by going for the Mosin, currently laid across the back bench seat, or the Mossberg stood on its stock, Charles grabbed his mothers hand. Quickly he dragged her into the car, then crawled into the drivers side and started the engine.

As soon as he could process the effect of his two-shot volley, Robert turned and dashed for the hovercar. Sliding into the rear, fingers curling around the magazine tube under the pump of the gun, he hauled it inside with him.

"Charles, dr-"

"Geez, dad, why else would I be in the drivers seat?"

"We don't have time for your smartass remarks, now get us to the spaceport and get ready to open the sunroof!"

Sliding the varnished pump of the shotgun down partway to ensure he had a shell chambered, Robert positioned himself on the seats so he could pop out of the sunroof.

"Dad, we've got police hovers flashing at us!"

The odds of them committing a traffic violation- even with Charles driving- and having two of the city's current four hovercruisers suddenly tail them were too remote to be plausible when thought through rationally, a difficult task when under so much stress.

"Keep going, son. No slowing down! And open the damn sunroof!"

Buildings started streaking by and the force of the acceleration almost threw Robert off-balance. Planting his knees into the leather and against the cushion, he kept from flying into the rear. Finally the sunroof opened, allowing him to pop up and shoulder the shotgun.

"Skeet shooting with buckshot, who'd have thought?" Robert shouted into the cab.

"Not funny!" Linda yelled back.

Putting the recoil pad against the valley in his shoulder, Robert welded his cheek to the stock and aligned the sight beads, acquiring the closer hovercruiser.

Unlike the Mosin or pistols, shotgun triggers are meant to be yanked, as a spray does not need to be pinpoint accurate, only timely.

Pressing hard on the hair trigger, and riding the heated gasses was a plastic shroud, carrying 9 pellets of buckshot. These slammed into the windshield of the cruiser, its own forward momentum magnified the impact. Metal and glass met soft flesh and bone and fabric, painting the dark interior with blood and brains. The doomed hovercar veered downward and left, smashing into the street below.

As soon as the recoil abated and the barrel was once again controlled, Robert worked the pump, ejecting the empty shell and loading a brenneke slug.

He took aim at the driver's side of the pursuer, lined the beads, plotted the ballistic path of the one-ounce chunk of metal, and yanked the trigger.

Shotguns can shoot two basic types of slug- sabot and brenneke. Sabot are meant for rifled barrels, as the slugs themselves are smooth. Brenneke have rifling on their body and can be shot out of a standard smoothbore barrel.

The metal chunk flew towards the last car... Which banked and only received a furrow in the roof.

The passenger window revealed a hand holding a gun, which began to spit hyperaccelerated and deadly shards of metal.

_They have mass effect weapons!_

"Dad, I'm kinda getting shot at!" The fear in Charles' voice caused it to rise and go shrill.

"Robert, get your head down before you lose it!" Linda was tugging at him urgently.

Ignoring them both and chambering the next round, he yanked back and tracked the enemy, spraying a hail of number 4 buckshot. The smaller shot had more pellets, but only cut into the front metal thanks to a skillful maneuver by the driver.

_This is getting old and fast._

Wind howling past him, Robert loaded a slug and aimed at the shooter, his stream of fire starting to come uncomfortably close. His shooter's valley protested when he reseated the stock, but he pressed it in anyway.

This time he acted as though he was yanking the trigger, complete with mock recoil, cauding the skilled driver to juke away...

And in that moment between maneuver and acquisition, Robert tracked and fired.

The hollowpoint slug shattered the smooth glass pane of the windshield, deflected slightly by the slope. Finding the sternum of the driver, horrific hydraulic shock liquified the organs in the immediate impact area, and the inexorably advancing lead chunk tore inside, exiting through the spine, hollowpoint ripping and tearing.

Satisfied, Robert ejected the shell, allowing his last round into the receiver and inside the barrel. He dropped back inside the cab, ears ringing from the loud reports.

"Ro-"

"Not now, Linda! I need to..."

"_Bobby boy I've been following your fun, get that thing in the hold now!"_

Derrick's voice boomed from the omnitool.

"We're almost there! Charles is driving, better keep that ramp steady!"

"Wait what now? Ramp?"

"Yes, ramp. You're gonna put this thing inside a moving freighter."

"_Hoo boy, is that your boy? Damn, driving already? I'm too old for this shit..."_

"There!" Linda pointed at the massive freighter slowly lifting.

Charles' hands gripped the steering yoke tightly, knuckles blanching from the pressure.

He forced the car into a tight turn, lateral force pressing the older Shepards into the side.

Screaming down the last main boulevard, jerkily avoiding lightpoles protruding into the air, inexpertly banking away from buildings, Charles managed to not paste the family against any unyielding surfaces.

Finally rounding the last corner...

_"Hey man you've got trouble ahead! I told ya..."_

Two more hovercars with gunmen swooped into view, already filling the air with mixed lead and metal grain. Again popping up, Robert took aim with the shotgun, and let fly with his last buckshot, eliminating the gunner from the portside attacker in a grisly spray and an inhuman scream.

Letting the now-empty gun fall inside, Robert coolly drew his Raven, since refreshed with a mag of jacketed hollowpoints, and established a sight picture...

Until a sickening orb of roiling violet agony erupted in his shooting shoulder, a mass effect pistol round had punched into him.

Cursing and biting off a scream from the pain, he switched to a GI left-handed grip, stroking the trigger thrice towards the offending shooter.

Two shots struck the man's shoulders, practically bouncing off the hard cuisse, but the third entered his mouth, shattering teeth and lodging into the upper spine.

Another three bullets expended and the driver sent the car into the ground, out of the fight.

The final driver sent his craft into a ramming course, determined to take them out of the skies.

"_Better tell your boy-o he's about to get trounced if he isn't careful."_

"Yes, thank you, Derrick. I'm sure he appreciates such sound advice."

"_I'm just letting you know to tell him to watch out..."_

Suddenly Linda had raised up, holding the Mosin rifle, cooly checking the long bolt for a round.

"Nobody threatens my boy..."

She squeezed the trigger, sending a steel core round splitting through the air and into the final attacker's blue chrome hovercar. The round burrowed in, rending metal, and into the containment shielding of the tiny mass effect core holding the craft aloft.

Suddenly freed from puny harnessing of mere human engineering, the core imploded from the electrical imbalance, finally expanding in a fiery conflagration, consuming the cab and the Boss' driver.

"Charles, haul that yoke up or we're cut in half on the ramp!"

"I'm _trying_, geez! Its getting sluggish!"

_Shit_. The spray of death must have done something terrible to the internal workings.

"_I'll dip a bit but i'm getting final warnings from the defense system, hurry up, man!"_

The ramp dropped about a meter, but the lip was still visible in the front windshield...

When Charles pulled up, placing the car into the apex of a stall dive, belly slamming and skidding up the ramp. The shrill screech of metal on metal assaulted the family's eardrums, and Linda-still clutching the Mosin- was flung back, landing in Robert's lap.

"We're in lets get the hell outta Dodge!"

_"Closing and burning for orbit. I'll be down there after we hit the relay."_

Kissing his wife's cheek and locking his arms around her waist, Robert purred into her ear, "Not while Charles is in the car, ok?"

* * *

"Really, Dad?" I did NOT need to hear that part.

Linda couldn't help but snort. "I'm pretty sure it was a wounded growl and not a purr, dear. When's Derrick..."

"Hello hello! Bobby boy!"

The burly freighter captain crushed Robert in a bear hug, forcing the scent of engine lubricant, stale french fries, and tobacco smoke into Robert's nostrils. When he gasped at the contact with his injury, the captain pulled back and looked him over.

"Damn, Bobby boy. I've got some of the experimental medi-gel stuff we can put on that."

Turning his head to take in the others, he held Linda's hand and kissed the back gracefully. "Been too long, Lin."

Blushing at his manners, Linda smiled and replied, still obviously stressed and frustrated, "You too, Derrick. Been busy in the colonies?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. And Charlie! Last time I saw you you were a shrimp!"

His meaty hand engulfed the teen's in an enthusiastic handshake, the pump nearly yanking the younger man's hand from its socket.

"All our papers are through and all?" Robert asked.

Smiling with teeth, Derrick laughed and held out a sheaf of papers.

"Shepards, say hello to your new lives on Mindoir!"


End file.
